


It's a Beautiful Day

by FinnsKeeper



Series: Ineffable Husbands Bingo [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Picnic, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 11:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20599994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinnsKeeper/pseuds/FinnsKeeper
Summary: Crowley turns up at the bookshop three days after their victory lunch at the Ritz. He doesn’t say anything, just slithers through the door and leans against a column as Aziraphale hedges over price points with a stubborn customer.“You free?”“I am.” With a flick of his wrist, Aziraphale flips his Open sign to Closed and bolts the door. “What did you have in mind?”“Thought we could go on that picnic.”An angel and a demon go on a drive, share a meal, and finally confront the last of the secrets between them.Ineffable Husbands Bingo Square Filled: Picnic





	It's a Beautiful Day

Crowley turns up at the bookshop three days after their victory lunch at the Ritz. He doesn’t say anything, just slithers through the door and leans against a column as Aziraphale hedges over price points with a stubborn customer. The angel doesn’t notice him at first, distracted as he is, but the moment the sale is complete and the woman walks away with her prize he catches sight of the demon lounging casually in the shadow cast by the expansive bookshelf near the window. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale beams, “how was your nap?” After dropping Aziraphale to the bookshop, he’d announced rather dramatically that he was going to sleep for a week. He’s only managed half of his goal, but he doesn’t look upset. In fact, if Aziraphale has to put a name to the demon’s attitude, he’d name him restless.

Crowley sniffs. “Alright.” He uses his angular shoulder to push away from the column and slink closer. “You free?”

“I am.” With a flick of his wrist, Aziraphale flips his Open sign to Closed and bolts the door. “What did you have in mind?”

“Thought we could go on that picnic.” 

There’s a careful edge to Crowley’s tone, like the first steps out onto a freshly frozen lake. Aziraphale tenses slightly, a visceral reaction to the way his heart began pounding away in his chest at the way Crowley has phrased his request. 

_That picnic._

There is no mistaking his meaning; Aziraphale himself had been the one to offer the possibility, all those years ago in the Bentley outside a dive bar. He’d known precisely what his words meant, had chosen them carefully, the way he did all of his words. They're precious things, after all, and it wouldn’t do to squander them away on empty platitudes. He’d said them with all of the hope and promise of _please, please wait for me_ and _soon, I swear it, just not now_. It was a quiet vow at the end of another carefully crafted answer. _You go too fast for me_. It hadn't been a no—he couldn’t deny the twin enticements of Crowley’s steadfast presence and his own secret desires forever—but a request, a plea for more time. He hadn’t known then what he was stalling for, just that he needed space to think, time to digest everything that had happened. But as the years stretched on and Crowley didn’t press again, Aziraphale feared his message might have been lost in the three feet of miscommunication that always seemed to linger between them.

But with just seven words, hope blossoms in Aziraphale’s chest again. Crowley had heard him, had understood, and is once again reaching across the chasm between them, testing the waters carefully. His eyes are hidden by the dark lenses perched on his nose and he stands almost preternaturally still as he waits for an answer. He’s done this before, reached out to bridge the gap between them, and every time Aziraphale has balked. 

But not this time. This time...Aziraphale reaches back.

“I would like that.”

Crowley erupts into a fit of nervousness, like he’d been bracing for a rejection, had been ready to retreat quickly, and suddenly has nowhere to put that energy. It morphs into something like muted excitement and he grins broadly as he sweeps a hand toward the door in flourishing invitation. It’s endearing, and Aziraphale smiles fondly.

“Should I get—?”

Crowley cuts him off. “I have everything in the car.”

“Very well.” Aziraphale follows him outside, locking up behind them with a thought. The Bentley is parked at the curb, gleaming and clean and perfect. Aziraphale remembers finding it on the street that fateful morning after they’d chosen their faces and set off to free themselves of their respective shackles. It had brought a smile to his face and given him hope that his beloved bookshop might have also been set to rights.

“I’m glad she’s alright,” he remarks.

Crowley’s smile has flattened somewhat now that they are out in public, but the corners of his mouth are still slanted upward as he reaches out and opens the passenger door, leveling the angel with a rather pointed stare. 

“Me, too.” Aziraphale lets the weight of those two words push him into his seat, settling on his shoulders like a warm blanket. Crowley makes sure all of his limbs are inside before shutting the door and jogging around to the driver’s side. It’s a small gesture, but one that he’s never performed before. It’s important. It means something, and Aziraphale is fairly certain he knows what that something is. The thought thrills him. The engine roars to life—a warm, familiar rumble that sends a shiver of _something_ up Aziraphale’s spine that’s altogether different from the usual terror that seizes him whenever he rides with Crowley.

The Bentley takes off from its parking space like a skittish horse at Ascot, pressing them both back into their seats as traffic miraculously parts to let them weave in and out harmlessly. 

“Where are we going?” 

“You’ll see.” Crowley doesn’t take his eyes off the road, which Aziraphale determines is a conscious choice rather than actual concern for road safety. Whatever the demon is thinking about is heady enough that he’s feigning concentration, a silent plea for Aziraphale to drop it for now. He does, relaxing back into his seat as they lapse into a companionable silence.

It only takes a few minutes for them to get out of Soho and onto the M1. They are headed north, though that gives him no clues as to their destination. The whole country is north of them, and Crowley could be headed anywhere. There’s something terribly romantic about it, about the anticipation building in his chest, and for a long while he lets it bubble happily. They are finally—_finally_—moving forward, together, on their own side, and a hundred million possibilities unravel in his mind.

By the time they pass Watford and the northern stretch of the M25 the silence has morphed from comfortable to charged, and Aziraphale’s fingers begin worrying over each other. He needs something to do, something else to focus on before he works himself into a tizzy.

“You mind if I put some music on?” He’s reaching for the stack of square plastic cases tucked into the console beneath the radio before Crowley can answer.

“Sure.”

The titles are meaningless to him, so he focuses on the cover art instead. None of them look familiar, which means Crowley has replaced them since the last time he’d sifted through the collection. _Or Adam had_. That thought makes him chuckle slightly. The boy had made some rather interesting additions to his own inventory; he can only imagine what the Antichrist had done to Crowley’s music selection.

He selects a rather interesting looking cover and opens the case. There are two discs seated inside, and he plucks out the one on the right at random. It slides into the slot on Crowley’s dash with a quiet hum as Aziraphale snaps the lid closed and replaces the stack to the center console. 

A peppy drum beat fills the Bentley accompanied by a strumming guitar. The volume is low enough that they can hold a conversation over the music, but neither seems inclined to talk just yet. So Aziraphale sits back and turns his head toward the window, happy to watch the passing cars (or rather, the cars they are passing) and tries not to get too worked up on where they’re going.

They listen to three discs before Aziraphale’s curiosity finally gets the better of him. As they pass Leeds and change over to head east on the A64, he turns in his seat and stares at Crowley. The demon has been unnaturally quiet for the entire trip, commenting only when Aziraphale asks a question about a particular song or when yelling at a fellow motorist. His eyes are still firmly set on the front windscreen, and in the window beyond his shoulder the sky is beginning to darken as evening falls. 

“Crowley?”

“Hmm?”

A thousand questions try to spill from his tongue, culminating in a strangled sort of gasp. He can’t decide on one, and he opens and closes his mouth several times in an attempt to get something out. Nothing comes.

“We’re almost there, angel.” Crowley doesn’t look away from the windscreen, but Aziraphale feels Crowley’s attention shift slightly from his driving and settle on him. Even peripherally, it’s wondrous and warm, like the first rays of sun after a cold night. It’s enough to silence his unease, and Aziraphale relaxes into his seat.

It’s dark by the time they turned northward again. Crowley seems to know where he’s going, and the Bentley doesn’t slow as the two-lane road they are on leaves a small town behind and cuts through a thick patch of trees. They pass a checkpoint station and a sign informing them that they have entered the North Yorkshire Moors National Park. The road winds lazily through the forested area, the headlights the only source of illumination. Crowley’s speed is still ludicrously fast, but they aren’t careening off the road or squealing around corners, so Aziraphale supposes he should be thankful for small miracles.

Finally they reach a crossroads, and up ahead the line of trees is thinning at the edge of the beams of light shining from the front of the Bentley. Crowley sucks in a breath and glances over briefly.

“Do you trust me?” 

There was a time when Aziraphale would have followed up such a question with one of his own, would have answered with a timeworn excuse about demons and sides and inherited animosity. Now he just smiles.

“Of course I do.”

“Can you close your eyes? I’ll...I’ll let you know when you can open them.”

Aziraphale complies, the near-silent tedium of their long drive giving way to the excitement he’d pushed away somewhere around Northampton. They’re getting close. He can hear it in the way Crowley shifts in his seat, feel it in the way he urges the Bentley just that much faster. 

A few more turns, taken a bit more gently now that Aziraphale can’t see to brace himself, and they stop. The engine cuts off, casting an almost oppressive silence over them until Crowley opens the driver side door and comes around. When his own door opens seconds later, Aziraphale turns his head toward the cool air and inhales. Dozens of scents war in his nostrils, and he only manages to identify one or two before Crowley’s hand grasps his elbow. He stands and allows the demon to steer him a few steps away. A quiet snap accompanies a soft wave of energy that pulses from Crowley outward. 

“Just walk slow,” Crowley’s voice is just over his right shoulder, his hand curling firmly around Aziraphale’s bicep to guide him. The sounds of night time insects chorus softly somewhere off to the right. The wind dances over his shoulders and through the fine hairs at the back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. It’s unseasonably cool for this time of year, though he doesn’t worry over much. Angels and demons aren’t terribly bothered by weather conditions, though he knows Crowley prefers the warmer climates to the cold ones. He makes a mental note to miracle up a blanket or two if the temperature dips too much lower.

“Keep them closed a minute,” Crowley directs. The ground beneath their feet changes from rough grass to soft flannel; they’ve reached the picnic site. The wind is blowing a bit harder here, and if he strains his ears he can just make out the soft shush of the ocean somewhere far off ahead of them. They’ve come a long way, indeed, if they’ve made it all the way to the northeast coast.

Crowley’s presence next to him changes slightly, and even blind as he is Aziraphale can tell that his friend has sat down. A gentle tug on his hand brings him down next to the demon, and he situates himself quite snugly on the blanket, his legs stretched out and his hands folded in his lap. 

“Crowley?”

“Alright, angel,” Crowley breathes, his voice a mixture of anxiety and awe. “You can look.”

_Oh_.

A thousand words in a hundred different languages slip across his mind, but he can only gasp in astonishment at the tableau before him. The night sky overhead is a blanket of dark blues and purples, and the Milky Way stretches upward from the horizon in an array of thousands of twinkling stars. It’s a glimpse into Heaven itself. Not the Heaven of now, with its white walls and unyielding rules, but the Heaven of yesterday. Aziraphale remembers the songs that had reverberated through the cosmos as they were born, stretched and molded and placed with reverence and care. He wonders if Crowley remembers them, too, or if it had been stripped from him during the Fall, if he now aches with only the mere muted echo of that glorious melody. He isn’t sure which is worse, actually.

“Oh, Crowley. It’s wonderful.” He shakes the melancholy from his head and turns toward his friend with a wondrous smile. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“Sure.”Crowley twists from where he sits sprawled on the blanket and fetches the wicker basket. “Hungry?”

“Famished.”

The basket has obviously been miracled to keep their food fresh, because the things Crowley is pulling from its depths would have surely spoiled in the nearly four hour car ride from London to wherever they are now. A bowl of sliced fruit comes out first, and Aziraphale plucks a crisp apple wedge from the pile and bites into it eagerly as Crowley dives back in for the next course. A plate of oysters, a pot of Aziraphale’s favorite stew, even gravlax in dill sauce all come out one by one to add to the pile of food. It’s an odd assortment, Aziraphale thinks, until the last dish appears. The crepes are warm and decadent, and the angel’s eyes light up as he finally realizes what this is.

“Crowley, this is...all of this food, I mean…it’s…”

“It’s us, yeah,” Crowley finishes for him. “Every meal we’ve ever shared.”

_Shared_ might have been generous, since Crowley rarely ate anything, and it’s hardly _every_ meal, but it’s certainly all of them that meant something. Each dish holds a memory, a moment in the last six thousand years when the division between Heaven and Hell had been no more than a dinner plate and some fine wine. 

_Speaking of wine…_

Crowley fishes a bottle from the miraculous depths of the basket, followed swiftly by two glasses. He fills each halfway with the dark liquid and offers one across the spread of food. Aziraphale takes it eagerly and swirls, letting it breathe as he collects himself. This is all too much, the food, the wine, the picnic...he feels as though he might burst from the swell of delighted fondness in his chest.

“You’ve outdone yourself this time, my dear,” Aziraphale nearly whispers, as though afraid to shatter the moment by speaking properly. 

“Not a bad picnic, huh?” Crowley’s grin is back, tinged ever so slightly with that smugness that Aziraphale adores. 

“Not at all.” He taps his glass against Crowley’s before taking a small sip, then sets to devouring the feast that has been laid before him. They speak about trivial things as they eat, the new items in the bookshop and the most recent shows that have debuted at the cinema. They make plans to attend the theater in a month or so when a play they both want to see will finally be touring in London. It’s companionable and familiar, and when their words peter out into a comfortable silence, Aziraphale feels no obligation at all to fill it. They sit side by side, gazing up into the universe stretched out like a tapestry overhead. Minutes pass, then an hour, and still they remain.

“I love you.”

Crowley's tone is so matter-of-fact, so nonchalant, that for a moment Aziraphale wonders if he’s misheard. Then he continues.

“I’ve loved you for so long, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t. Kept it to myself because, well...” 

He doesn’t need to finish that sentence; Aziraphale has done it enough over the last six thousand years. Words like _opposite sides_ and _hereditary enemies_ echo like a cruel schoolyard chant in Aziraphale’s mind. He doesn’t dare look away from the horizon, scared that if he moves even an inch that Crowley will stop talking. 

“And I tried not to. I really did. For a few years, after the whole Ark business, I almost managed it. Told myself I was being ridiculous and foolish and soft, but I couldn’t help it. So I kept it to myself, buried down beneath everything.” Another breath, this one a bit heavier than the one before. “But then for a few hours on Saturday you were _gone_. You just...didn’t exist, and I realized I’d wasted every chance I ever had to tell you.”

_So tell me now_, Aziraphale pleads silently, but he can’t get the words past the lump in his throat. Crowley hears him anyway.

“But you came back,” he’s smiling now, Aziraphale can hear it in the way his vowels stretch languidly, “and I promised myself that I’d tell you. Even if nothing comes of it, even if you don’t…” A beat, then, “I want you to know that I love you.”

When Crowley falls silent, Aziraphale finally turns his head to look. Sometime in the last few minutes he’s removed his glasses, and his expressive eyes are still fixed on the magnificent sprawl of stars above them. Bathed in starlight he looks ethereal, and Aziraphale balls his fists to keep from reaching out to touch the nebula of light on his face. Then he realizes he doesn’t have to hold back any longer, doesn’t _want_ to hold back. 

The first tentative touch of warm fingers to cool skin causes Crowley to inhale quickly. He keeps his eyes on the sky, though Aziraphale can tell it’s taking every ounce of his control to do it. His fingers dance down the line of his nose, ghost over a sharp cheekbone, then slide down smooth skin to slot perfectly in place around a slender jaw. Gentle pressure turns Crowley’s head toward him, and finally their eyes meet. 

“Crowley.” He murmurs his name with as much love and adoration as he can muster—which, at this moment, is quite a lot. It spills from his eyes, tracking love down his cheeks as his right hand comes up to frame the demon’s face between his palms. His thumbs press devotion into Crowley’s skin, smoothing away the disbelief he sees gathering on his face. 

Then, with the most careful of movements, he dips his head and brushes his wind-dried lips against Crowley’s. The demon lets out an abortive sort of noise, something halfway between a gasp and a groan that Aziraphale chases back into his throat with a firmer press of his mouth. Crowley returns the kiss enthusiastically, snaking his arms around the angel’s waist in an attempt to bring them even closer. Aziraphale’s fingers curl into the soft hair at the nape of Crowley’s neck, drawing a delightful moan from the demon. They rise to their knees, pushing their bodies together from chest to thigh, as their mouths worship each other fervently.

After several long moments of this, Aziraphale pulls away and tilts his head forward to press their brows together. He opens his eyes slowly, hoping to impress his sincerity and fondness into Crowley’s golden ones, but his eyes are still closed. A brush of thumbs against eyelids draws them open, and Aziraphale is struck by the raw emotion he sees flicker across his demon’s face. He puts a name to each one—love, hope, relief—on and on, until he comes to the last. It’s something like fear, though there is more uncertainty in it than real terror. He tries to think of why Crowley would be afraid now, of all times, when they’ve just confessed—

_Oh_. Oh, he’s an idiot.

He puts a bit more space between them, but only just enough to ensure he has Crowley’s undivided attention. 

“I love you.” His declaration holds all the weight of something immeasurable and undeniable and absolute. He will brook no argument, leaves no room for even the _idea_ of doubt to creep in. “I do. Quite ardently, in fact. And I’m sorry it’s taken us so long to get here, but I’ve caught up now and I never want to be parted from you again, dearest.” He kisses Crowley’s cheek. “Beloved.” His brow. “_Ahuvi_.”

The ancient endearment finally banishes the last lingering traces of apprehension from Crowley’s eyes and he topples forward to engulf the angel in a bone-crushing hug. They tumble backwards onto the blanket in a tangle of limbs, but Aziraphale doesn’t mind. He gathers his demon close and shushes him quietly, soothing his hands over the crown of his head and down his back in gentle, sweeping motions. After a few moments Crowley raises his head and captures Aziraphale’s mouth in a fierce kiss, as though he’s the first gulp of air after spending too long beneath the crushing waves. 

They spend the night there, kissing and talking and holding. It’s enough to just finally _be_ that neither of them pushes anything further, though Aziraphale is careful to catalog each new noise elicited by his touches. By the time the soft orange sun pierces the grey morning, Aziraphale has quite a repertoire memorized for future use. 

“We should get home,” he hums into Crowley’s hair. The demon has sprawled himself out face down on Aziraphale’s chest, nestling comfortably between his legs, head resting on an angelic shoulder. Aziraphale welcomes his weight, a solid reminder that this is real, that they are both here and together in every way that matters. 

Crowley grumbles, though there’s no real threat behind it. He pushes himself up onto his hands, hovering over Aziraphale with a wicked smirk. “Or,” he dips back in for a kiss, nipping impishly on Aziraphale’s bottom lip, “we could stay. At least for a _bit_ longer.” 

A delicious shiver snakes down Aziraphale’s body and he returns Crowley’s sly smile with one of his own. “As lovely as that sounds, dearest,” he levers himself up on his elbows, bringing his body flush with Crowley again, “I’d much rather have a bed beneath you for this.”

“_Ngk_,” Crowley’s head falls to the angel’s shoulder. “You can’t...you can’t _say_ things like that and then expect me to drive four hours back to London.”

Aziraphale shifts his weight to card a hand through copper red hair. He presses a kiss against the twisted serpent next to Crowley’s ear, letting his tongue sneak out for a quick taste. Crowley whines.

“Then let’s not drive,” Aziraphale tempts. “You grab the Bentley, I’ll handle the rest.”

A quick nod is his only answer. They share a shuddering breath before twin snaps echo across the morning, leaving no trace of their evening except for a perfect square of matted grass where a tartan blanket had been.


End file.
